


One Night in Archet

by Atanvarne (asecretchord)



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asecretchord/pseuds/Atanvarne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to track the movements of the Enemy, Aragorn chose to adopt various disguises and a wandering minstrel named Viggo happened to be one of them.  One night, his path crossed that of Boromir of Gondor's, who was still hunting for the land of Imladris...</p>
<p>Inspired by <a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v482/atanvarne_lj/wargfur2.jpg">this</a> photograph.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night in Archet

"I'm not asking you to babysit him, Erestor. I am asking you to follow him," Arwen snapped. "Elbereth knows, he is perfectly capable of getting himself out of trouble. I am simply asking you to find out what kind of trouble he is getting into. The 'I need to check in with Halbarad' story is getting wearisome."

"Ahh," Erestor replied. "Lady Arwen, I am certain that Estel conducts himself honourably. There is no need for me to monitor his movements." He had heard the rumours coming out of the south; that the Nine were abroad and Gandalf was missing. He did not relish the thought of traipsing through the wilderness, attempting to best a Ranger at his own game–stealth. No, he was needed here, at the Last Homely House.

"Erestor," Arwen warned, "if you won't let me know what Estel is doing, I will be forced to tell Glorfindel why things keep disappearing from his chambers only to reappear days later strangely altered."

Erestor flushed. He would prefer to keep the mystery alive for a while longer. He thoroughly enjoyed listening to Glorfindel's rants about vanishing tunics, missing bottles of soaps and oils, and wayward reports. He also enjoyed the towering rages when the tunics returned with sequins and beading sewn around the collar and wrists, the soaps returned with a more floral scent, and Erestor hadn't ever seen anyone blush as deeply as Glorfindel when the reports showed up at a council meeting–complete with sketches of Elves in compromising positions. Aye, Glorfindel would have his head if he ever learned Erestor was behind the pranks.

"Very well, Lady. Only I must insist that in my absence you take care of a few things." Arwen arched one brow in silent inquiry. "I've arranged to have some dye added to the soaps he uses for his hair. He should be a lovely strawberry blonde when I return." Arwen nodded. If that was the price for information, she would pay it, gladly.

***

To the gatekeeper's eyes it was clear the Man was weary. He was well-dressed, though clearly travel worn and the gate keeper wondered why the Man was unhorsed. Only the Rangers and that odd minstrel ever arrived in Archet afoot.

"Sir, can you recommend an inn for the night?" the Man asked politely. His accent was unusual though he spoke well, and cordially. "I am looking for good food, a clean bed and a soldier's comfort," the Man continued, gazing steadily at the gate keeper to see if his meaning was understood.

"Err, a soldier's comfort. Yes," the gate keeper stammered. Well. "You'll be wantin' the _Laughing Bull_ then. Straight up the road, right at the second crossroads. It's near the north end of town." He appraised the stranger. "I expect you know your business, but it's best to keep your wits about you. It's an honest place as far as inns go, but it has more than its fair share of brawls." The stranger nodded politely, thanked the gate warden and headed up the road.

A twenty minute walk from the town gates found the Man at the entrance to the inn. From all appearances it was a friendly place; clean and well appointed. He arranged for a room then made his way to the common room. A few heads turned as he walked through the doorway but the attention of most patrons remained fixed on an empty stool at the front of the room.

The Man ordered a pint of ale from the barkeep, then surveyed the area. He found a seat at a nearby table and made himself comfortable. If events followed their usual pattern he could expect to be joined by one or two of the men to talk about the weather. He suddenly had the feeling of being watched and turned in his chair. 

In the corner sat a man, fairly tall if the length of his legs were any indication, wearing a hooded cloak as though to prevent his identity from being known. The Man squinted at the figure, trying to make out some features--old, young, fair–when the embers in his pipe suddenly flared, illuminating for a moment a pair of deep set eyes gazing steadily back at him. The Man nodded once in acknowledgement, then turned back to the tankard of ale before him.

The man in the corner stood suddenly and threw off his cloak with a theatrical flourish and burst into a merry song as he made his way to the empty stool and claimed it. The Man at the table choked on his ale as the crowd burst into laughter and applause and cautiously set the tankard down. Not even in Rohan had he encountered someone, something, like this.

His hair was dark, mostly, except at the ends which were lighter, and something was causing it to stand on end. Electric blue eyes were heavily outlined with kohl, and his cheeks and lips were painted. He wore dark leggings, but instead of a tunic it appeared he had a cloak of warg fur, or something equally unattractive. A strange amulet hung around his neck. He was singing some tune in an unfamiliar tongue with strange and disturbing rhythms and accompanied himself on a lute or mandolin or some stringed instrument. The Man simply could not look away and was disturbed that he could not.

It was clear that the entertainer, to call him a singer would be more charitable than he deserved, was known and well-liked by the crowd. As the song ended, several of the men called for a tale. The entertainer obliged and launched into a wild story about dwarves and trolls and something called a hobbit, if the Man had heard properly. The Man flushed when he made eye contact with the entertainer and was rewarded by a nod in his direction. Several of the patrons turned to see who had won the honour of the entertainer's company for the evening, and spoke in low tones amongst themselves when they realized that a stranger was present.

After the story's conclusion and several more songs, the minstrel stood and nodded to the applauding audience, then joined the stranger at the table. "Welcome to Archet, lord. I am called Viggo," then called for a pint of ale as he sat.

"Boromir of Gondor," the Man said by way of introduction.

"Gondor? You are far from home, lord. I cannot recall ever seeing someone from Gondor in these parts. What brings you so far north?" Viggo asked, clearly surprised by the revelation.

"Why do you call me lord? I am Boromir in these parts," he replied. "I am searching for a place called Imladris. All my father knew was that it was somewhere in the North. It has taken me nearly three months to travel this far, but none seem to know where, or if, it exists."

"Your father is a lore master, then?" Viggo inquired cautiously. A stranger searching for Imladris might not bode him well.

Boromir hesitated. "No, not precisely, though he is knowledgeable about much outside the borders of our land."

VIggo filed that information away for later. It was apparent to him from the manner of Boromir's dress that he was a person of some importance in Gondor. And his father was well-educated enough to know of Imladris. "What position does your father hold in Gondor? Is he an advisor to the Steward?"

Boromir shifted in his seat. "No, not an advisor. What of your father, Viggo? What sort of man would bestow such an unusual name on his son?" When no answer came, Boromir continued. "Do you really wish to have a discussion about fathers? All I seek tonight is a soft bed, a hot meal, and if the fates are kind, someone warm and willing under me."

Viggo smiled at the turn in conversation. "Would you be interested in adding a bath to the list of desirable things? If you will arrange for a soft bed, I can provide the rest."

"A bath? A tub filled with hot water?" Boromir moaned at the thought. "Had I been thinking more clearly I would have put it at the top of the list. The room has been arranged. Would you care to join me there?" Boromir's green eyes lit up at Viggo's assent and he smiled, the first genuine smile of the evening. They rose from the table and left the common room. Neither noticed the presence of a figure in black, hooded and cloaked much as Viggo had been, along the far wall of the room. As the two men left, the mysterious stranger pulled out a piece of parchment and began to sketch.

The Men stopped briefly at the innkeeper's desk and requested food and a bath be sent to Boromir's room. "We took the liberty, sir," the innkeeper informed them, "of providing a bath for you. Meaning no offense, sir, but you appear to have spent a great many days on the road. I thought a bath would be welcomed."

Boromir chuckled. "One can hardly take offense at the truth so diplomatically spoken. 'Tis true indeed I have spent a great many days afoot and the thought of a hot bath is a pleasant one. Your hospitality is to be commended. Seldom have I been treated so well at the hands of an innkeeper."

All in all it was a very, very good night. The innkeeper sent up two bowls of steaming stew filled with meat, a rich broth and fresh vegetables, a large loaf of bread and a flask of wine. The tub was full of steaming hot water which was cooling while they ate.

"Tell me about your name. Viggo. It is one wholly unfamiliar to me." Boromir said as he took a bite of bread, and it was plain he was truly interested in hearing the tale.

"Hmmph," Viggo snorted as he finished his wine. "According to my father, who was not a lore master by the way, it was a common name in Beleriand in the ancient days. Believable as far as it goes, except I have yet to meet anyone, including some Elves, who have heard of it. I suspect he made it up to make up for the mundaneness of his own–Bill Smith, the farrier."

Viggo rose from the table and slipped off the warg pelt he'd been wearing, then extracted from his battered pack a robe of black lace. He slipped his arms into the robe, belted it loosely around his waist then removed his boots and leggings. Boromir sat back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him, smiling appreciatively at the figure standing before him. The robe left little to the imagination and Boromir liked what he saw.

Viggo knelt at Boromir's feet and pulled off his boots. His fingers worked up the insides of Boromir's legs, kneading and massaging as they moved slowly upwards until they settled for a time on the insides of his thighs. Boromir shifted his hips forward in his seat, reclining a bit more and sighed as Viggo's fingers began to undo the laces of his breeches.

"Ah, the sleeping giant awakes," Viggo mused as he slid his hand along Boromir's rapidly stiffening cock.

Boromir burst into laughter, a sound that quickly became a low moan of pleasure as the heat of Viggo's mouth surrounded the head of his cock. Viggo's tongue swirled around the tip in maddeningly slow circles, then he lifted his head and blew on the spot where his mouth had been, causing both Boromir and his cock to jump. Viggo licked up the shaft, then took as much of the length into his mouth as he could manage, humming as he did so. The vibrations sent little lightning bolts through Boromir's cock into his brain.

"Viggo," Boromir gasped harshly by way of warning as his hips began a rhythm of their own.

Viggo backed off slightly and hummed a bit louder, waiting for the inevitable explosion of bittersweet fluid to fill his mouth. He was rewarded for his efforts a few short moments later when, with a guttural cry, Boromir released his seed as Viggo swallowed eagerly.

Viggo sat back on his heels with a satisfied expression on his face. "Ready for that bath, my lord?" he asked as he began to unfasten Boromir's surcoat. Boromir nodded and stood, shedding cloak, surcoat, mail, jerkin and tunic until he stood in nothing but his unfastened leggings. "How many layers do you wear?" Viggo asked, looking in astonishment at the swiftly growing pile of clothing.

"More than I care to think about," came the reply. "And why did you call me _my lord_?"

"Indulge me," Viggo replied with a crooked grin. "As one who is providing much in the way of service to someone clearly of high station, it seems appropriate given the circumstances. Now get into the tub," he ordered, pulling down Boromir's breeches as he spoke.

Boromir did as he was bade and sank gratefully into the tub of gloriously warm water. He settled into the tub and closed his eyes, allowing the warmth to penetrate down to his bones. Viggo folded a towel into a square and knelt upon it. He took up soap and a soft cloth and began to bathe the Man from Gondor. Viggo tended Boromir with all the skill of a trained courtesan, reducing Boromir to a boneless mass of pure contentment.

"I know I told you I wanted someone warm and willing under me," Boromir murmured from his place within the bath, "but would you be adverse to someone warm and willing under you instead?"

A gleam suddenly appeared in Viggo's eyes. "If that someone is you, then, no, I would not be adverse at all." He extended his hand to Boromir and pulled him to his feet. Boromir stepped over the side of the tub and stood quietly as Viggo towelled him thoroughly. Once dried, Viggo led Boromir to the bed. "Lie down on your stomach," and while Boromir sank gratefully into the bed, Viggo went to his pack and extracted a fair sized bottle of scented oil.

He poured a goodly measure into his hand and allowed it to warm, then drizzled it onto Boromir's back. Straddling his hips, Viggo sat astride the Man and began to massage the oil into Boromir's back and shoulders, relishing the feeling of pliant, warm skin beneath his fingers. He worked steadily, working knots out of muscles and weariness from limbs until Boromir was all but purring under his hands.

Viggo began to plant a line of kisses down Boromir's spine, lingering at the small of Boromir's back. He rubbed his fingers down Boromir's cleft and was rewarded with a small shudder. "Up on your knees," Viggo murmured, coating his fingers and aching cock with oil as he spoke. Boromir pulled his knees under him and raised his hips off the bed.

Two fingers worked their way slowly into Boromir's entrance and Boromir thrust back against Viggo's hand. "You've done this before," Viggo said, causing Boromir to chuckle in agreement. Viggo withdrew his fingers and lined himself up with Boromir's entrance. One long, slow thrust saw him fully sheathed within the hot, tight passage.

Boromir sighed with undisguised pleasure. "As have you." They found an easy, steady pace that brought them slowly to the brink of orgasm. As their coupling took on a sense of urgency, Viggo wrapped one hand around Boromir's cock and began stroking him, bringing him closer and closer to the edge. With a hoarse cry, Boromir arched his back and came in Viggo's hand. Several quick, deep thrusts carried Viggo into his own rapture and with a sustained moan he spilled himself within Gondor's son.

They both collapsed in a heap on the bed, sated and happy. "Will you stay the night?" Boromir asked, welcoming the opportunity for simple companionship while he slept. Truth be told, he had been lonely on his journey and found a new appreciation for company in the most mundane aspects of life.

"It is not my way to love and leave," Viggo replied. "Besides, I am quite ready to sleep. The day has been long and harder than I care to remember." He wrapped himself around the half-asleep form of Boromir, resting his head in the hollow of Boromir's shoulder. He smiled to himself as he felt a kiss pressed against his forehead. _Such a lovely man_ , he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

Viggo woke early the next morning and extricated himself from the gentle grasp of the still sleeping Boromir. He dressed in a simple tunic and the leggings he had worn the day before and made his way to the common room. As he hoped, the man he wanted to see was waiting at the bar. The two men filled mugs with hot tea and sat themselves at a corner table.

"The Nine are abroad, my Lord, and the halflings are heading straight into danger. Bombadil has protected them thus far, but he will not cross the borders of his lands. With good fortune, they should arrive in Bree this night," the man said urgently.

"Thank you, Halbarad, I feared as much." Viggo murmured. "Once I have concluded matters here I will attempt to find the halflings on the Road. Perhaps I can persuade them to permit me to be their guide for I am certain they will not make it to Rivendell on their own." Viggo thought for a moment, weighing the dangers and his choices.

"I have a new task for you. Boromir of Gondor, Denethor's son, is here. He is searching for Imladris but does not know where it can be found. I will direct him to travel along the East Road and warn him of the Riders, but the rest is up to him. Keep him safe, Halbarad, for he is precious to me. Stay out of sight if possible, but steer his path to Rivendell." He smiled wearily. "I know I ask much, but to the extent possible he needs to find Imladris on his own."

Halbarad shifted uncomfortably. "I do not like trying to protect a man on foot from the Nine, but it shall be as you request."

"The halflings travel on foot," Viggo reflected. "I will offer my horse to Boromir. I, too, prefer he travel by horse with the Nine abroad. He knows their number, Halbarad, and their nature. I will warn him that Minas Morgul has unleashed its power. He will understand." He finished his tea and stood. "Now I must prepare for this morning's performance. Elbereth knows this is not my favorite guise, though it has served me well. I wonder, though, at the circumstances that placed Boromir here with Viggo."

"Far be it from me to question the doings of Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Halbarad stated quietly. "Boromir will arrive at Rivendell unscathed if the Rangers of the North have anything to say about it. We will keep to the shadows and pray to the Valar that we need not reveal ourselves to him." He clasped Aragorn on the shoulder and left the inn as silently as he arrived.

Viggo returned to Boromir's room and readied himself for his day's work. He sat in front of the small mirror, cleaned his face, then reapplied the kohl and paint, grimacing as he did so. It would be a challenge to resurrect the light hearted minstrel, especially after speaking with Halbarad. He turned as Boromir began to stir and flashed a winsome smile in his direction. "Sleep well?" he asked.

"More soundly than I have in weeks. I am certain I have you to thank," Boromir said with a smile of his own, propping himself up on one arm.

Viggo returned to the bed and sat down. "Do you still have a desire for someone warm and willing under you?" he asked lightly. In response Boromir took Viggo's hand and placed it on his cock. "I'll take that as a yes," Viggo smiled, stripping off his tunic and leggings and slipping into bed.

Boromir undertook a slow, thorough exploration of the warm, willing body under him, taking delight in the smell and feel of Viggo under his hands and mouth. Their joining was as smooth and unhurried as it had been the night before, each taking a full measure of joy from the other. Viggo moaned as Boromir thrust unerringly against the place within him that brought exquisite pleasure and allowed himself to surrender fully to the sensations coursing through him.

They came to orgasm within moments of each other and spent several long minutes, limbs entangled and hands gently caressing the other. Viggo ran his fingers through Boromir's hair and along the shell of his ear, gazing into the clear, green eyes of his lover. "I have enjoyed our time together, Boromir of Gondor, and hope you will carry the memory of this day with you wherever you travel."

"May I kiss you?" Boromir asked, almost shyly if the expression on his face was any indication.

"After what we have shared, a kiss hardly seems like an intrusion," Viggo replied, recognizing the unspoken desire for a more intimate connection. He closed his eyes and allowed Boromir to take possession of his lips. The kiss was far sweeter and more gentle than he anticipated and he understood why Boromir had made his request. No, he would not forget this encounter and neither would Boromir. Viggo sighed as the kiss ended, sorry it was not continuing.

Boromir ran his hand along Viggo's shoulder, then with regret in his eyes climbed out of the bed and began to clean up. He donned tunic and leggings, then allowed Viggo to help him into the other layers. He picked up the warg pelt and draped it over Viggo's shoulders, kissing him lightly as he did so. They left the room and walked into the common room so Boromir could eat before he resumed his journey.

"I've heard some rumours, Boromir, that the Nine from Minas Morgul are abroad and have been seen near the Baranduin," Viggo informed him quietly. "After I sing for my supper, or breakfast as the case may be, I am heading to Bree. I know you are searching for Imladris. All I can tell you is that it is nearly a three week journey by horse along the East Road." Viggo paused and looked at his hands. "Take my horse. I will have no use for it for at least a month and no matter where you are, he will find his way home. I would feel better knowing that with the Nine on the hunt you are not afoot."

Boromir sat back, disturbed by the news. He had heard similar rumours and had a healthy fear of being caught on the ground by the terror that inhabited Minas Morgul. But he did not like the idea of Viggo walking along the same road. While he did not believe the minstrel would be in any real danger, minstrels were seldom threatened by the powers of Mordor, he worried about Viggo in his own right. "I do not like the thought of you unhorsed. I am a warrior, Viggo. I can take care of myself. You are far too gentle a soul to face the Black Riders. A horse is your best defence."

"I do not know if I should feel complimented or not," Viggo laughed, then became serious. "Bree is a half day's walk from here. Imladris is over a month by foot. Please, Boromir, take the horse. He is sound and sure footed. Surprisingly, I would rest easier if I knew you were safe."

"Do you know where Imladris is?" Boromir asked.

"Only that it is past Amon Sul and near the Ford of Bruinen. Beyond that I cannot say. If you make it to the Ford you should be able to find someone who knows where it lay," Viggo replied, deeply sorry he could not reveal more.

Viggo accompanied Boromir to the stable and helped him arrange his gear. "Our paths will cross again, Boromir, I have no doubt." Viggo hesitated. "Be cautious, be safe, be well." He cupped Boromir's face in his own and kissed him. "I should have asked permission, but I didn't want to hear a refusal."

"I would not have refused," Boromir said softly. "Thank you for the horse. I will find a way to return it to you. You have my word." Viggo gave him a leg up, smiled as Boromir touched his face, then continued to watch long after he disappeared down the road. Aragorn returned to the inn and removed all traces of Viggo from his skin, donned a dark tunic, mail, surcoat and cloak, retrieved his sword, bow and knife from their hiding place inside the stable and started down the road in the opposite direction.

After a month's journey, Boromir found at last the Last Homely House in the valley of Rivendell. He was introduced to Gandalf and Elrond Halfelven upon his arrival and was invited to join in a secret council. He was seated across from a dark haired man who looked vaguely familiar. He racked his brain, trying to place the face he was certain he had seen before, but upon learning the man in question was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's Heir and heir to the throne of Gondor, he knew he must have been mistaken.

Boromir wandered through the house after the council, lost in thought, so much so that he paid no attention to where he was. He turned a corner and headed toward the sound of voices, looking down at the corridor as he walked. As a consequence he failed to see Glorfindel hurrying down the hallway in the direction of Elrond's study, peering at the top piece of parchment of the sheaf he was carrying.

They collided and the papers went flying. Boromir bent to help gather them as he apologized for his clumsiness. Glorfindel was likewise apologising as he collected the papers. Several other Elves, a dwarf and a pair of hobbits had scurried to help when the youngest hobbit, Pippin, suddenly stopped and stared. "Look, Merry, it's a picture of Strider!"

Merry stood behind Pippin and his eyes opened wide. It was Strider, but not the Strider he knew. This Strider was, well, if Sam had weighed in Merry was certain the phrase "cheap floozy" would have come up. A crowd was gathering behind the hobbits. "That's Estel," an Elf exclaimed in amazement. Glorfindel snatched the sketch out of the hands of the perplexed, and slightly horrified, hobbits and stared down at it. It was, indeed, the most frightening image of Estel he had ever seen. The dwarf stood next to Glorfindel and looked at the picture. "I thought he said his name was Aragorn."

Boromir's curiosity was piqued, not so much at the variety of names, but at the wide range of expressions ranging from amusement to shock on the faces of those peering at the picture. He could not imagine why a drawing of Aragorn would cause such a flurry of interest. He held out his hand and took the picture from the strawberry blond Elf as the subject himself drew near. He looked down and gasped as the face of Viggo stared back at him. He looked at the approaching Ranger, then back to the picture and did what any man in his position would do–he fled.

He hurried down the corridor and opened the first door he came to. He tried to steady his breathing as the realization that he had made love to the uncrowned King of Gondor hit with full force. How in the name of the Valar would he ever look his liege in the face again? He started as the door began to open and he hid in the only place available to him–curled in a fetal position under the broad wooden desk standing at the front of the room. He closed his eyes, hoping that if he couldn't see, then neither could the intruder.

Aragorn sat on the floor next to Boromir. "I told you our paths would cross again," Aragorn said softly, "though frankly this is not the manner in which I envisioned our next encounter would take place." He looked at Boromir, still curled up with his hands over his head. "Hey, look on the bright side."

Boromir raised his head and risked a glance in Aragorn's direction. "There is a bright side, then?" He wriggled out from under the desk as Aragorn scooted back to give him space and sat himself near the Ranger, King, minstrel, whatever.

Aragorn laughed. "Of course there is. We get to skip the awkward _does he or doesn't he and if he does how do I let him know I do, too_ phase." Aragorn smiled. "I knew when I saw you at the _Laughing Bull_ that you were from Gondor, but I want you to know that I would have joined you at the table regardless of who you were or where you were from. You have an appeal far beyond your title."

"Should I assume that skipping the awkward beginning part means we get to start in the middle?" Boromir asked, the beginnings of a smile ghosting over his lips. When Aragorn nodded Boromir found that the long trip home suddenly sounded much more enjoyable. He did not know what adventures they would experience along the way, but he was certain the journey would be one for the history books.


End file.
